


You're Not A Cop Sandburg

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, Episode Related, First Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 06:38:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/794978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair accepts the badge.  Now will the real Blair Sandburg please stand up?</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Not A Cop Sandburg

## You're Not A Cop Sandburg

by Ann Heric

Not mine. Don't own them, cause if I did. well let's just say I treat my stuff a lot better than Pet Fly seems to.

First time author - feedback encouraged.   
This is for Beth, who may never read this, but encouraged me anyway.

Spoilers for TSbBS.

* * *

You're Not a Cop, Sandburg -- How many times have I heard that statement? 

From Jim, from Simon, from Joel - God, from my own mother! It always sounded derisive, condescending. People always seemed to be defining me by what they thought I wasn't, rather than what they thought I was. Like I never quite made the cut in whatever judgment was going on. And yet there I stood, in the squad room, with Simon dangling a badge in front of me -- a job offer. 

To carry a gun twenty four-by-seven, to be Jim's real partner; his backup; no longer his sidekick - to be his equal. 

But haven't I always been his equal? Even without the badge or the gun? 

I've studied tribes all over the world and the one idea that my studies have always reinforced is that every person has a purpose. Not everyone can be the Shaman, not everyone can be the healer, not everyone can be the hunter. Nor can everyone be the guardian. 

So when did this become about the label instead of the person? 

I've been many things in my life: student, teacher, anthropologist, son, friend, writer, neophyte, expert. I thought I'd become many more: a doctor, researcher, author, mentor. 

But a cop? Nope, that never was an option. 

Cop. Police Officer Sandburg. Detective Sandburg -- Do I want that ? 

Do I want to be with Jim, twenty-four-seven? Yup. No question. 

Do I want to keep him safe, keep him whole, keep him happy? Yup, no question. 

Do I want to * be * a cop? Nope, no question. 

Oh, I've always enjoyed the problem solving, some of the adrenaline rushes, the feeling when a case is solved and the criminal is behind bars. But do I want the responsibility of "serving and protecting" the people of Cascade all the time? No. The only one I want to serve and protect is Jim. So the question is, how do I do one without the other? 

* * *

A week passed after Simon held out the shield, and I'd agreed to take the job. At least, I'd agreed to try. 

Jim offered to take me to the shooting range for practice, before I started the official classes at the Academy. I agreed to meet him over there at 10 a.m., after clearing out my office at Rainier. Figuring I'd be in such shock from taking that final step and closing out my life, that I'd be too numb to feel the emotions involved at the shooting range. 

I was wrong. 

Oh, it started off okay. Jim showed me how to sight the gun properly and stood behind me with his hand on my back and encouragement in his touch and voice. I'd held a gun before, so I knew what was coming. I'd even fired one. But not like this. 

We were standing there, with our ear protectors on, and I took my turn, shooting a few times. Jim stopped me and helped me adjust my stance - a pull on my arm here, a push of my shoulder there. Each adjustment was followed by a warm grip to my shoulder or a short tug on my ponytail. One action to make me uncomfortable; the other to comfort. My body and my emotions were having a bit of a problem with the conflict. 

My aim began to improve, so I was no longer hitting the wide white of the paper; I was narrowing in. 

Bullseye. 

I hit a direct shot to the heart - with the first bullet from the new clip on my eighth target. 

So much for shock protecting me there. It was all I could do not to throw up my breakfast. I could feel my heart accelerating. I knew Jim could too. Even with his hearing turned down, I knew he was monitoring me. 

I flipped the safety on, set the gun on the counter and turned to Jim, who had a small smile of pride that reached his eyes. Pride that I was there, trying. Even though Jim began to rub little circles of warm comfort on my back -- I could feel the shaking in my body getting worse. 

"I'm done." 

Jim's slowly stroked up my back to my shoulder. "Yea Chief, you are." 

Looking at him, I knew that he understood what I was saying. 

After exiting the range, we were quiet in the truck driving home. I wasn't sure what was going to happen. Which label would I acquire next? How would I take care of Jim? 

I walked into the loft, throwing my keys into the basket. Jim shut the door behind me, leaned his cane against the wall, and moved toward me. 

I stopped cold. Or is that I stopped warm? Because I know the temperature went up a few notches immediately. 

The look in his eyes, was just -- too much. I could feel him scanning me. His eyes moved from my sneakers to my jeans, and up through the three shirts to my face. It was if this were the first time he was really looking at me. With three layers of clothes on, I'd never felt more exposed. 

Then Jim came forward and embraced me, his left arm sliding around my back and his right cupping my cheek. I could feel the slight resistance as he thumbed over the stubble. I watched as he closed his eyes and he leaned in to kiss me. 

He may be the Sentinel, but I was the one cataloging every sensation so that I could remember it later. I could feel his body heat, and the uneven slant of his shoulders as he kept his injured leg from bearing too much weight. I could smell a slightly sweet scent to his breath as he came forward. The scent of musk and mint that was always "just Jim" getting stronger as he leaned in. 

Finally I could taste his incredible flavor as I brushed his lips with my tongue, and then suckled as his tongue ran over mine -- the kiss starting gently and then becoming passionate and deep. 

Jim gently pulled back and strengthened his embrace. 

Kissing the top of my head, he rubbed his cheek over my hair. I could feel him sensing everything about me as we stood there. His deep breaths pulling in my scent. His hands gently gliding over my torso. Maybe he was taking a reading of Blair, his lover, instead of Sandburg his observer? I could feel the force of his focus on me. 

"You're not a cop, Chief." 

His arms tightened for a second, as if to take the sting out of the words. 

"No man, I'm not." 

I gently kissed his neck and held on. 

"We'll figure something else out. If you can't observe, maybe you can consult. If not, then there are plenty of ways for the protector to protect the tribe without a badge. But we're in this together. Know that now." 

I felt him place another kiss on my hair, this one more of a benediction than a pass, and the tension started to leach from my body as I leaned further into his embrace. 

* * *

Jim's spooned up against me now in the bed up stairs. Our bed. Nothing's really happened yet, just a little kissing, a lot of holding and some talking. 

Or maybe everything has happened? 

We've made love with our minds and hearts; the rest should be easy. 

Anyway, a Saturday afternoon nap is just the ticket here. 

So I'm here with Jim snuggled up behind me, his fingers interlaced with mine, and I remember many of the times we've had together. All those times someone said, "Sandburg, you're not a cop." 

But when I look back on this morning and hear Jim say it, it sounded a lot like, "I love you Chief." 

* * *

End You're Not A Cop Sandburg by Ann Heric: annheric@aol.com

Author and story notes above.

* * *

  
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